Your suit was cheap but your manners weren’t. You held doors, poured drinks, laughed at jokes that landed like dead moths. At 3 a.m., you counted bills on a cracked leather seat, watching the city exhale steam from manholes—ghosts rising from a sewer heaven.
The city didn’t glitter that year. It buzzed, low and fluorescent, like a dying bulb over a rented room. You moved through the half-dark lobbies of late capitalism with a smile that cost you nothing to give and everything to maintain. GIGOLO I -2015-
Gigolo I : not a man, not a myth. Just a shadow with good posture, dancing for tips in the long, ugly twilight of the mid-2010s. Would you like this expanded into a full short story or poem? Your suit was cheap but your manners weren’t